Scheiße
by Alaeryn
Summary: Germany finally gives in to his little, lusty Italy. But what happens when he, at long last, tastes his sweet gelato lover? It is the beginning of a dismantling addiction. Strong sexual themes. Yaoi. Read, enjoy, and review! More to come.
1. Dance in the Dark

There were very few things that Germany found difficult. In fact, he excelled at most anything he attempted. Whether the task included the intricate wonders of engineering, or the robust practice of beer-brewing, or the complex equations of modern economics, or the various vigorous activities involved in his morning exercises or, of course, military strategy, Germany performed exceptionally in all areas. He was often accosted by other countries for advice. (Most recently, Greece was often at his doorstep, asking for another loan to cure his ailing people; it was irritating, but these things had to be done and sacrifices had to be made in order to preserve the Eurozone.)

But Germany was now faced with a new task. This task, though imperative, though it had needled Germany for decades, was one that seemed gargantuan and completely impossible. It was both Herculean and Sisyphean in nature. If it were not enough that he had rendered himself vulnerable in that cursed (blessed!) moonlit Italian garden, blurting embarrassing things while under the pressure of Feliciano's sweet golden-brown gaze, he was now faced with the endless aftermath of such confessions.

Admittedly, the moment had been perfect. Among the roses and foxglove and the glossy purple hyacinth, beside the crystal fountain and beneath the resplendent plum-colored sky, Germany had found himself suspended in that senseless state of, damn it all, _romance. _ It was all he could do then, with Italy looking at him that way, not to lose himself in the heady, intoxicating sensation. It was new. It was strange. It was damn frightening.

Now, after extensive research into these sorts of matters (he had scoured the romance section of the local library), Germany had discerned that, as Italy's _lover_, there were certain _expectations_ to be met. He was determined to perform well. It was in his nature to perform well, but the prospect sapped his will and made him feel strangely. He had no idea how to begin, no idea how to set the mood, no idea how Italy would react, and how to handle it all when he did.

The situation was becoming dire. For, with each evening that the two retired together, Germany could feel the weight of expectation grow heavier and heavier upon his shoulders. Each night, he would stiffen in Italy's arms. Poor Italy! His Italy, who wanted nothing more than to be loved and kissed and held, would fall asleep with that same silly grin on his face, having received few if any of those things. Germany could not continue to fail Italy, who he loved with such desperate intensity that he couldn't put it into words, much less actions. His adoration for Italy was something he horded deep in the pit of his stomach, in a most miserly manner; it was difficult-yes, difficult-to find the will to give up that precious gem, to tear himself open and render himself vulnerable _again_ in an act of vigorous, exhaustive, completely unsanitary love. If he were a believer in white flags, he would have waved one long ago.

Currently, Italy was undressing for bed, his slender olive fingers working deftly at his buttons. He was smiling to himself, as he always was, particularly these days. When he removed his shirt, revealing those lovely rounded shoulders and that smooth back, Germany looked sharply away, gritting his teeth. He was sitting resolutely on the edge of their bed, willing those troublesome sensations away. He had given up the silly notion that he and Italy ought to sleep in separate beds; the Italian always wormed his way into Germany's sheets anyway, so they began sleeping together in a more routinely fashion. However, such an attitude gave rise to these situations, when Germany, in varying states of arousal, found himself watching Italy undress. Feliciano's body was flawless. Tanned and slender, his lithe and lovely figure was a sight to behold. It strained Germany to look at him. It pained him_ not _to look at him. Feliciano was crawling into bed now, in an oddly sensual way, to nuzzle Germany and kiss the shell of his ear.

"Ve, Germany! What do you'a want to eat for breakfast tomorrow? I want to make you something you're going to loooove!"

He was fairly cooing and purring with happiness, his slender arms going around Germany from behind. This, although a pleasant sensation, made Germany uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly away.

"You von't be making any _breakfast_ tomorrow, Italy. You'll be _training_ with me. How many times do I have to tell you this?"

Scolding Italy was easy; it was a much simpler task than the one looming over his head. Italy was undaunted, snuggling against Germany's bare back but saying nothing. They both knew that, come morning, Germany wouldn't have the heart to disturb the sleeping Italy. He was beautiful when he slept. He was also blessedly quiet.

After putting out the light, Germany and Italy climbed into bed together.

In the dark, it was easier for Germany to put his arms around Italy's small waist without feeling too silly. Their nightly ritual, of shyly shared kisses and cautious caresses began. Italy, well-versed in these things, took the lead. It was an odd role-reversal, but one that Germany accepted without qualm. He allowed himself to relax (just a little!) in Italy's hands, allowing Feliciano to twist his fingers in his blond hair, to stroke his back, to press little warm kisses to his lips and eyelids and cheeks. His hands, sliding down the plain of Germany's back, were gentle and trembling with restrained desires. Their heated bodies were pressed close; they were clutching one another with such ferocity that Germany feared he was hurting Italy. His fingers were pressed into Feliciano's flesh. He knew that, in the morning, as usual, there would be little red marks on Italy's body, where Germany gripped him. This caused Germany a fair amount of guilt and embarassment.

This was usually how their nights ended, somewhere between desperate kisses and whispered love confessions, the evidence of their arousal hardening throbbingly between them. Germany was usually the one to pull away, mumbling something about an early start, and Italy would comply. They would lie together, with Germany facing away, into the darkness, with Italy hugging him from behind, kissing him lovingly on the neck and shoulders and back.

But.

There was something about Italy tonight. Or maybe that something had always been there, slowly chipping away at Germany's will. Tonight, there was something maddening about Italy's flickering tongue, which tasted so much like garlic and tomato sauce and was wetly roving over Germany's bottom lip. Italy's talented hands were moving south, and Germany both wanted and feared what he knew would come next. He was tingling inside for it. He shifted and grunted, tried to distract Italy with more kisses, their tongues tangling hotly together, but Italy, the lover, was relentless. His hands moved on their certain course toward Germany's hardened vital regions. Their bodies were pulsing against each other. Was tonight the night? Germany was overwhelmed by panic. He pulled away from Italy, who whimpered.

"I-Italy...!"

"I'mma sorry. I won't do it again, Germany. I just... I just'a..." He buried his head in Germany's chest, still trembling with arousal.

"Don't apologize. Und what are you... Come on, don't cry. Italy!"

He was afraid that it would come to this someday, that he would frustrate Feliciano so thoroughly that he would be reduced to tears. Germany's iron will crumbled. He held Italy close to him, stroking his soft brown hair. "Don't cry. Vhat is there to cry for?" Italy spoke between hiccups.

"I just'a...*hic* I just'a I want to show you... *hic* how much I... how much I love you, Germany! A-And I know it'sa hard for Germans, b-but I promise, you don't *hic* you don't have to do anything! I'lla do everything, Germany! Please, Germany... I love'a you so much..."

Damn it.

He could not deny his little Italian any longer. The darkness hid most of Feliciano's face, but upon stroking his cheek, Germany found it wet with tears. His heart felt cracked open, just like that night in the garden, and he felt that, if he could reach into his chest and tear out his organs if only to spare Italy one ounce of pain, he would have. There was nothing for it. He would have to soldier on into the unknown, into the petrifying abyss, not for his own satisfaction but to ease his Italy's suffering.

"Fine. If it vill make you stop crying, I'll... do vhat do you want me t-" He was going to delve into a lecture, which also came easily to him, but Italy had wasted no time, his hands found Germany's still stiff manhood, stroking it through his clothes with a tender expertise that completely clouded Germany's reason. He groped for words but found, under Italy's swirling thumb, that they all tumbled to the tip of his tongue and teeth only to die, unuttered. He gripped Italy with that painful ferocity again, gritting his teeth with pleasure.

Something began taking over him. A raging, rabid something, but Germany pressed it down again. This was not the time to lose his logic! No...! No! Even though Italy was reaching into his clothes, to stroke his manhood more wonderfully than before. His heart was hammering in his chest, a wild caged beast. If this were not enough, Italy had begun kissing down his body, a fiery trail of passion, with a "Vee, Germany... I'll do everything. I'll do everything!" His little warm tongue was swirling sensual patterns all over Germany's body; Ludwig felt ready to convulse in pleasure. That thing kept raising its head, that dastardly feeling, that urge that he wrestled with day after day. He smothered it, squeezed his eyes shut, tried to think of everything but how maddening Italy's mouth was, but it was no use, particularly when Feliciano began licking and suckling Ludwig's manhood in a thousand different pleasurable ways. It was embarrassing, but Ludwig couldn't help but groan in ecstasy.

"Ah! Italy! Italy!"

The Italian, having obtained the object of his deepest desires, did not pause in his activities. Rather, he increased his efforts, wrapping his tongue around the tip, drinking in the fluids that had already began to leak from his lover, and then-mein gott!- taking him entirely in his mouth. Germany gripped the sheets. Their bed was shivering with the violence of their delicious activities, and the urge, growling anew, tore up through Germany's body with a vengeance. Propping himself up on his elbows and watching Feliciano's little pink mouth wrapped and working around Ludwig's swollen and throbbing cock, Ludwig found himself so painfully aroused that every last light of logic and reason was eclipsed by that insatiable and unconquerable beast- lust.

"Italy," Germany grunted, gripping Italy's shoulder with one hand. Italy, his mouth wet from service, looked up at Germany with shining, loving eyes.

"Yes, Germany? Is...everything all right? Veee~! I... I promise I wassah trying my best and-b-but you are'a so biiiig, Germany and I-"

"Yes. Come here." Ludwig wrenched Feliciano upward and threw him unceremoniously onto his back. Germany was so lost in his own pleasure that he barely recognized himself. Were those his hands touching Italy so expertly, so viciously? Was that his mouth exploring that warm Italian body, licking his little hard nipples, sucking his neck and throat so hard that he left red marks? Italy was the one moaning now, and it was the most wonderful noise that Germany had ever heard. He wanted more of it. He wanted Italy to always moan in his hands and his hands alone. Upon kissing Italy's cheeks, he found them burning hot. He tore off Italy's remaining clothes and hurled them across their dark room.

"G-Germany?"

"Hush." With an almost practiced ease, Germany took Italy's legs and threw them over his shoulders, gripping his hips for leverage. They devoured one another with kisses, panting and moaning into each others mouths. "Tell me... if I hurt you. Okay? I don't ever want to hurt you."

Italy giggled.

"But'a what if I want you to?"

"That's different."

"Veee~! Oh... _Ludwig..."_

Italy, trembling and quivering with anticipation, was nibbling Germany's bottom lip with playful passion when his lover slammed deep within him. The Italian arched his back, screaming in ecstasy, and Germany took great pleasure in watching the lovely faces he made. He contorted this way and that, spreading his legs to accommodate Germany's girth. His arms were around Germany's neck. He was adorable, even now, the way he gazed at Germany, as if he were the most splendid man to ever grace the earth. His body tightened around Germany's manhood. The sensation, indescribable, cast Germany into a raging sea of sentiment. It was true that Ludwig's body was enjoying the activity; the force of their lovemaking caused them both to perspire, grunting and groaning. Being inside Italy, inside his hot and sensual country, was unfathomable bliss. But this was not all. His love for the country was growing, was affecting him in new ways. He held Italy close, whispered things he never had the will to say otherwise, things that made Feliciano smile, things that made his Feliciano weep grateful tears.

"I don't want to hurt you... I don't want to hurt you but I..."

"Ve, Germany..." he was stroking Ludwig's hair, "Germany, I want more. Issah that okay? I want more..."

He was drowning in his own desires, and as Italy gripped the headboard, Germany felt his madness deepen. He pushed himself more fully into his Italy, slamming into him over and over, until Feliciano was screaming and weeping and begging for him to never stop. He reached between them, tugging on Feliciano in regular rhythm, with wild rocking diligence. Italy's body shivered and quaked.

"Tell me... tell me again," Ludwig grunted between thrusts, "tell me again how you feel."

"T-Ti amo..."

"Again. I want to hear it again."

"Ti amo! Ti amo! Ti amo! Ah! Ah! Oh, Germany! I love'a you! I'ma... I'ma going to..."

Germany too, was beginning to feel the height of his lust peaking; his cock, buried deep with his lover, was throbbing and pulsing and aching. Before he knew it, before he could stop himself, he was grunting, gripping Italy to him, biting down onto Italy's soft and supple neck, and emptying his hot fluids into his lover with such force that it leaked warmly between them. Italy too, peaking simultaneously, released his sweetened juices everywhere, including Germany's sculpted stomach and bedsheets. Feliciano looked mortified.

"I'mma so sorry! I'mma so sorry! I'lla clean up. I didn't mean t-"

"Be quiet. Never mind all that."

His reason was returning. His mind unclouded, but because Italy was in his arms, looking sleepily satisfied, Germany was validated. He was unsure how often he could do this, giving into that strange side of him that so easily manhandled his Feliciano. It was disturbing how easily he went over the edge. What was worse, as Feliciano drifted off into slumber, Ludwig found that he wanted more.

What the hell?

No. No. He had to restrain himself. Italy was not some doll, some toy that he could fuck senseless every evening. As maudlin and ridiculous as it sounded, Italy was Germany's love, his light, his little slice of Italian sunshine, and he couldn't... he just couldn't... His will, even then, in the deepening dark, disintergrated. After a while, when Italy was roused out his slumber by Germany's incessant kisses, they made love again. In fact, Germany made a mess of his Italy all through the night. He was becoming extraordinarily good at this. 

**To be continued! ...Maybe...**


	2. So Happy I Could Die

**A/N: Before you ask, yes, every title of every fanfic is Gaga inspired. Because I'm a loser. Please enjoy this installment and tell me afterward how much you loooooooove it. Or else I'll cry. No one wants that. 3**

It was with great difficulty that Germany finally extricated himself from Italy's embrace. The dawn, swaddled in pink and purple mist, had fallen upon them like a thief, abruptly interrupting their copious copulation. Germany had thoroughly exhausted Italy, who, after several rounds of vigorous lovemaking, finally collapsed into slumber with his limbs wrapped tightly around his lover. His sleepy smile then was so bright, so serene, that Germany was compelled to watch over him for hours. He couldn't sleep. Not then. Not when he felt absolutely energized by the night's events. Not when he was saddled with the unfamiliar and intricate task of untangling the many threads of his own feelings. There was a logical explanation for it all certainly. It stood to reason that he would feel more fettered to Italy than ever before; after all, he had spent the entire night exploring the country, dipping his fingers into every valley, tasting every hill, and kissing every heated plain. What then was this sharp feeling of apprehension? It was a little like experiencing a brief military respite, when one stupidly lowered his guard in order to better enjoy a blessed cup of coffee or the fresh mountain air of a newly conquered country, only to suddenly realize that he is surrounded on all sides by creeping enemies, that he had unwittingly opened himself to invasion, and that he was faced with almost certain death.

It was not that Germany believed that his love for Italy would be his undoing. On the contrary, his days protecting precious Italy were among his finest moments. Rather, it was the strange and beastly lust, that monstrous urge, which clawed at his insides and unraveled his logic and reason, which ripped holes in his tightly managed schedule, and which rendered him senselessly inefficient and almost lackadaisical. In other words this disconcerting instinct stripped him of all things that made him _German. _He was not sure how to handle this, but he was certain that he was in danger of losing himself. After all, the countries most prone to such irresponsible and animalistic behaviors were those silly and frivolous nations like France, Spain, and yes-Italy. It was not like Germany to damn near wax poetic about Italy's lovely crescent of a smile, or to mull endlessly over Feliciano's magnificent moans, especially when such activities prevented him from his precisely scheduled eight hours of sleep.

Nevertheless, he had done all these things, and he felt verily ashamed. He vowed never to lose himself like that again; he'd worked Italy into a quivering tangle of ecstasy, but they could not continue this way. If they did, Germany would never get any work done. He resolved to exercise greater restraint and, nodding to himself in the spreading silver of the morning, he moved away from Italy, dressed with snapping rapidity, and ventured outside to begin his routinely constitutions.

But even then, even while he jogged his daily five kilometers, the night's events went worming into the wood of his mind. He ran endlessly; he ran until his muscles felt ragged and torn, hanging to his bones by tenuous threads. But the burn in his heart and lungs and legs was nothing in comparison to this new, maddening burn; it was same fire that had energized him through the night, which had ignited that insatiable glow in Feliciano's eyes. He managed push-ups and sit-ups and pull-ups, but his mind returned to Felici again and again. As his body wearied, Germany's lust strengthened. He fought it mightily. It was no use; he wanted to be near Italy again, to taste the warm slope of his throat, to kiss the trembling plain of his beautifully brown stomach, to feel his slender legs wrapped tightly around Germany's able waist.

What was wrong with him? He was sick! Fevered! There was no need for this ruthless obsession, and it was rendering him absolutely incompetent. After his routine, he would usually have a cool-down swim, just a couple of laps, in the nearby lake. But today was different; today he felt himself drawn to Italy in a way that he had never been before. Walking briskly through the tall grasses, he drew unto their large house. He felt a little like a rabid dog; his mouth was watering and his limbs were weak with desire. One hour a day. He would allot himself one hour a day to enjoy his Italy- no more and no less. It would be best if that hour occured just before bed. They could make love for one hour, sleep for eight, and then rise for morning exercises and continue on with Germany's tightly regimented day as usual. Yes. There was no need for this strange, beastly lust to get in Germany's way. For now, he would give into his gnawing need; his body ached for it. If he did not have his Italy then, panting and squirming and screaming his name beneath him, he would fairly explode. But then...! Then! He would return to schedule.

Rushing up the stairs to Italy, Germany quickly drew his sweaty shirt up and over his head. He threw open the door with unnecessary force, so the resulting noise blasted through the house like a gunshot.

"Italy!" he bellowed. He was immediately met with the thick, homey aroma of boiling wurst and salted, baking pretzels. Breathing deeply, Germany was calmed inspite of himself, though his desire did simmer lightly in his loins. "Italy?"

"Si, Kaiser!" Feliciano's musical response further soothed Germany's nerves. He rounded a corner to find his Italy standing before the stove and wearing a ridiculously frilly apron with the Italian flag imprinted on the chest. He was holding a large wet wooden spoon and, from time to time, he would peer into the lighted stove to gaze upon the steadily rising German pretzels. Upon Germany's entrance, Italy smiled widely and brightly upon his lover, dropping his spoon and rushing to Germany's side. His arms went wrapping around Germany's neck, and he pressed very close to Ludwig, so their bodies touched, fitting together in that wonderful way.

"Vhy is it that... even vhen cooking German food you manage to smell like garlic?"

"Veeeee~! Germany, I missed'a you."

"Italy..."

"Germany? Cannah... cannah I have a kiss?"

"I-Italy..."

"Please? Just'a like... Just'a like last night. I liked that so much, Germany. You are'a such a good kisser. I think I like kissing you more than'a I like pasta! And'a that is an awful lot, Germany. Germany! I'mma so glad you're back. I woke up and you weren't there, and I wassah so sad, but then I started cooking your favorite foods, and I wasn'ta so sad any more, but I've been wanting more kisses all morning, so I was wondering to myself about when you would be back and here you are! Ooo, and you are'a so sweaty; you must have worked really hard this morning, über bad Geeeeeermany. I like it when you're sweaty because it reminds me of all those good times in the past! Do you remember, Germany? Like'a that time you went to Poland's house and-"

"Italy. Shut up."

Overwhelmed with affection for his babbling country, Germany crushed his lips against Italy's, leaving him gasping and squirming in that way that drove Germany wild. Feliciano's body, supple and pliable, was in need of protection, of domination, of invasion, of conquest. He had Italy against the countertop, the pot of boiling wurst bubbling hotly beside them. Their tongues were dancing, hot and wet, together, and when Italy ran his quick, flickering tongue over Germany's bottom lip, Ludwig shuddered; his lust burst into all-consuming flame. Italy's back was already arching, a perfect bow, and Germany ran his hands along the lovely curve as if it were the finest work of engineering he'd ever witnessed. He had to have Italy. Immediately. His manhood was already stiff and throbbing between them. In addition, Italy's expert fingers went working at Germany's belt, tearing it open and dipping his little, groping fingers into Ludwig's trousers. Feliciano was touching him again, deliciously, gripping Ludwig's arse hungrily and then moving round to massage his growing hard-on. Their mixing breath, ragged and rough, was heated with their beastly desires.

No. No. If he took Italy now, he would ravish him unto destruction. He would take him for hours, tear him in two, leave blue and purple bruises all over his flawless body! Restraint! Restraint! He tore himself away. Italy's hair was a mess of beautiful brown curl.

"Veeeee~! Geeeermany... ah! Germany! Issah something wrong? You don'ta look so good..."

"I'm going to shower."

"Germany...?"

In the cool, clear light of the bathroom, Germany mastered himseelf with great difficulty. He paced, clenched his fists, and splashed chilled water on his heated face. This would not do. He could not transmogrify into a filthy animal whenever he was around Italy. It was indecent. It was a waste of time! He ran freezing shower water, still grunting and growling angrily at himself. Only after taming his irritatingly incessant erection did Germany introduce warm water to his shower; he stood, scrubbing himself with fierce efficiency, as if exfoliating his own inner evils, as if cleansing himself of mortal sin.

He was beginning to feel vaguely human again when the bathroom door swung open and then closed timidly. With an almost painful jolt, Germany recognized Italy's figure through the fogged glass of the shower. Ludwig wrenched open the sliding partition.

"Italy! Vhat in the hell are y-"

"I missed you."

"Italy, I've been gone for all of five minutes."

"I know but I... I still missed'a you."

Italy was close now, advancing through the steam, so that they were face to face. He was looking innocently gorgeous, splendidly sincere. "Cannah...I just stay here with you? I promise I'll be quiet. I just'a want to be with you. Please?"

"Italy..."

"I promise'a I won't be a bother. I'll just'a wait for you quietly. I won'ta be a bother at all."

"Italy you..." he sighed, feeling absolutely foolish already. Ludwig could feel a blush heating his cheeks. "You're never a bother. Vell. Sometimes you are. But even vhen you are a bother, I... ack. Come. Get in."

Italy's golden-brown eyes grew large with disbelief.

"Germany... really?"

"Have you bathed yet?"

"No, I-"

"I didn't think so. Get in."

Obediently, Italy peeled off his clothes, his lips curled into that pleasant smile that Germany had grown to adore. Ludwig watched his lover undress with mounting pleasure, with animalistic passion. Italy's caramel skin was already beaded with sweat. He stepped in shyly, and it was all Germany could do not to rip into him on the spot. They stood appraising one another for a long while, until Germany worked a bar of soap into a fine lather, then slid his hands about Italy's landscape, bathing him with gentle admiration. And Italy's body was exquisite. Seeing him this way, laid bare before him, was a marvel. He knew why so many lusted for him, why so many countries clamored for his hand. But. Italy was his. Italy was his and no one elses. Surely he could suffer a few kisses here and there, on the nape of that splendid wet neck, in the small of that soaking elegant back, on the swell of those trembling hips. After all, it was Germany's right to enjoy what was lawfully his. He pressed a kiss to Italy's neckline, and the country responded with shivering eagerness, moving his backside against Ludwig. Germany swallowed. His hard-on stupidy sprang into life. This, of course, invigorated Italy, who spread his legs a little, as if in anticipation. To hell with it! To hell with it! To refuse Italy now would be inhuman!

He kissed Italy's back again and again, dragging his tongue the length of his lover's spine. The warm water, rolling down the plain of Italy's back, was somehow sweetened by his olive skin. Germany savored the flavor on his tongue; his breathing grew hot and fast. Italy was quivering with joy, crying out in pleasure when Germany gripped him and tugged with slow expertise.

"Haaa! Oh, Geeeeermany!"

"Italy. Bend over. Now."

"Si! S-si!"

Italy bent, lifting his round and supple arse and shivering happily. Germany, losing himself in the thickening mist of his own desires, observed his lover before him a while, stroking him here and there, kissing his hips and nibbling his tender backside in a manner that made Italy shake so violently Germany feared he would collapse. Holding him carefully, Germany tasted every inch of his Italy, licking and kissing his legs and devouring his sweetest, most vital region. He felt perhaps, just perhaps, he could taste his own lingering flavor there among the delicious, tangy musk, about that tight round area.

"G-G-Germany! I... I need... Ah! Veee~! Germany! Germany!"

Italy was clutching the lip of the tub so intensely that his knuckles had whitened.

"Ja?"

"G-Germany...I wanta you... I wanta you to..."

"I vill."

Standing, Germany slid his fingers along Italy's spine, completely enamored with the country. How was it that, when he felt that his heart could expand no more with love for Italy, that it swelled to a new, throbbing size? Would he love Italy until his chest exploded with affection?

He eased a finger inside Italy's wet warmth, coaxing him open, and then introduced another finger until Italy, who was screaming and wailing with pleasure, begged and pleaded for him to...

"Vhat did you say?"

"G-Germany! You are'a so mean! I want'a you to... to... And'a you won't... But I need... I need..."

"Yes?"

"P-please...! I need'a you to um..."

"Fuck you? Is that vhat you mean to say?"

"S-si... I mean. Y-Yes, sir."

Mein gott, why was he so damned adorable? Even now? After stroking his Italy's warm insides a while more, enjoying every time his name exploded from Feliciano's lips, Germany scooped Italy into his arms, hoisted him up and against the tiled bathroom wall, and held him there for several intense moments. He kissed Italy's neck and cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Italy was gazing at him with tears of happiness in his eyes. His fingers were in Germany's wet blond hair.

"Germany," he said, his legs tightening around the man's waist. "I love'a you. I love'a you so much, Germany."

"I...I love you too, Italy."

With this, he shoved himself inside his lover. The ecstasy, inexplicable, overwhelmed them both, so neither spoke. Germany, generally deeply cognizant of time, completely lost all sense of it. How long did he hold Italy, pounding into him with rabid force? How long did the two make earth-shattering love in the suffocating steam of the bathroom? How many times did Germany promise, again and again, to never leave Italy's side, to always love him, to always protect him? How many times did Italy smile that elated little grin, with his eyes squeezed shut and his brows lifted in pleasure? Germany was not certain, but even an eternity would not have been enough.

His orgasm ripped through him, catching him by surprise. He was engaging Italy in a long kiss when the waves of pleasure crashed through him, careening him through a sea of starry ecstasy and drowning him in delightful release. Italy followed soon after, and they fairly collapsed against one another. Panting, they kissed for several more minutes.

"Can... you stand?"

Italy grinned sweetly, then shrugged.

"I amma not sure. My legs... they feel'a like gelato..." He giggled, especially when Germany scooped him, full-bodied, in his arms to carry him out of the tub. He assisted Italy in redressing.

"You're hurt."

"Mm? No I'mma not! I don'ta know what you mean."

"These bruises. They're from me. Right?" Germany ran his finger over several black and blue patches on Italy's body. Feliciano winced, but his persistant smile did not fade in the least.

"It'sa okay! They don't hurt at all. Besides, it'sa fun getting them. Right, Geeeeermany? Vee~!"

Having dressed, Feliciano fluttered from the room. Germany nursed a seed of guilt within his heart. This was not appropriate behavior. How much time had he lost? How much labor had been wasted? Adding to Ludwig's misery were the big blooming bruises on Italy's body. Upon examination of Italy's maladies, a third party would assume that the boy had been soundly beaten. Germany slumped down onto the lip of the tub, his face in his hands. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, thoroughly annoyed with himself. He had lost control once more.

He needed advice. His own iron will was flimsy and useless. But who...? Who would listen unswervingly to Germany, without judgement? Who, outside of Italy, knew Germany so intimately? Ack! Ack!

"Italy?"

Germany exited the bathroom, having dressed smartly in his uniform. Italy was bustling about the kitchen, re-heating the pretzels and placing the meats and cheeses on two plates. There was a bouquet of edelweiss on the table. Germany sank into his seat, where Italy immediately joined him, plopping himself into the man's lap and gesturing at the sizzling breakfast.

"I hope'a everything is good, Germany. Veeee~! Are you ready to eat? I'lla feed it to you!"

"Italy, you're wrinkling my uniform."

"Si!" Italy moved into his own seat, still smiling. Germany grunted, highly irritated. As soon as Italy had migrated away, Germany wanted him back in his lap. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with him?

"Italy, ve are going out today."

"Ooo! World domination again, Germany? That is always fun with you, Germany. I like it."

"Nein." He bit into a juicy, cheese-drizzled wurst, nodding in appreciation. His Italy was an angel in the kitchen. "Nein. Ve are going to see my brother. Prussia."

**To be continued! Maaaaaybe... .**

**...D'aaaw, who am I kidding? Of course I'm going to continue! Prussia is coming up!**


End file.
